


Young Love

by maebethistime



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 17,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maebethistime/pseuds/maebethistime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of almost daily drabbles about the Soul Eater world and the young love burgeoning in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm finally getting around to putting this up on AO3! This collection was written a while ago and put up on FF.net. Over the course of this month I'll be slowly posting all the chapters here.
> 
> Different chapters are different lengths, ranging from five sentences to over a thousand words. Have fun.

"I could make you happy, you know."

The words were whispered into her ear when she was at the edge of sleep. They wormed their way through her tired mind, squirming into her brain and settling down their roots. By the time she woke up, the idea was ingrained into her like a tattoo, and she couldn't shake it.

He didn't act any different around her, but she knew that it had been his voice that had planted those words inside her. She'd glance up at him across the table, watching the morning light slide across the curve of his cheek and the sharp strands of white splayed across his skin, and she'd feel the idea spread a little farther, claiming more territory inside her. His eyes—redder than the centre of the sun—would flick up to hers and a slow, lazy smile would creak it's way across his face. And she'd suddenly feel hot, like her skin was tighter than it should be, like that whisper barely heard was strangling her with it's importance.

They still fought. With each other and _with_ each other. Nothing had changed in their partnership, but something had changed in her mind, had bent and twisted since she had drifted off on the couch and he had carried her to her room and whispered seven words in her ear.

It was after a mission that the arms of the idea in her head started to reach into her chest. He transformed back from a scythe, slipping out of her grip and hopping from foot to foot as he complained about the soreness of his back. Distracted, her eyes on the sun dipping low on the horizon, she told him that he should stop complaining, because she could give him a massage when they got back to their apartment. He shot her a look over his shoulder, folding his arms behind his head, and nodded lazily, the grass rustling under the slow shuffle of his feet.

And she stopped walking, her eyes fixed on his back. It hit her then—the sheer domesticity of their lives (once you took out the fights and missions from the equation)—and she found herself asking it.

"What did you mean?"

His feet stilled on the curve of the hill. Without turning, he shrugged.

"Depends on what you're talking about."

She ignored that. He knew what she was talking about.

"You do, already." She swallowed hard. The words tasted differently coming up her throat than she had anticipated. "Make me happy."

A slight, bittersweet, sad sound drifted back to her ears from him, and it took her a moment to realize that it was a laugh.

"Not the way I could."

He inhaled sharply and turned around, pushing his clenched hands into his pockets as though to hide them.

She had the feeling that she should say something, was supposed to say something at this point, but she'd never seen that look on his face before, and the idea he'd sown into her mind was preventing air from entering her body.

"I..."

He took a step towards her.

She wanted to back away. She wanted to run. She wanted him to take another step.

He did.

"I meant it—"

His voice cracked and broke away and he looked at his feet, before he tried again.

"I meant it in a forever kind of way."

Her eyelids drifted shut, her body fighting the urge to sway forward into his.

"Prove it," she whispered.

Two more steps and his awkward, fumbling fingers were sliding over her wrist. His breath shuddered out of his mouth and over her skin and she flinched, just a tiny bit. But she didn't move when his lips, shaking, touched hers, soft and tentative and sure.

A heartbeat, and she was stepping closer, her mouth opening clumsily underneath his.

And in his breath she thought she could taste the truth of those seven words.

"I could make you happy, you know."

She knew.


	2. Chapter 2

There were a lot of things that one could say Soul was good at.

He was a good scythe. He was a good dancer, strangely enough. He was good at playing the piano. And if the evidence of the last hour were to be taken into account—despite the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed before tilting her chin up and bending down with a grin stretched across his flushed, hazy face—then he was also a very good kisser.

But one thing he was not was a good singer.

"She got the honeeeeeyy and I—hic—got the moneeeyy," Soul slurred into her ear, his voice making awkward leaps from note to note. Maka winced as she closed the door of their apartment behind her and wished he weren't leaning quite so strongly on her. His chin was digging into her shoulder and his breath was blowing hotly over her cheek, causing her stomach to clench in a way that was decidedly unpleasant. Unpleasant because she was certain that he was not trying to cause this reaction in her, and probably hadn't meant anything that had transpired between them at that stupid, stupid bar.

She hated alcohol.

And she HATED Soul's singing voice.

"To buy her a...big bouquet!" Soul warbled. He stopped mid-tune, much to her relief, and pressed a sloppy kiss to her cheek, much to her dismay. His hands, which had seemed so unsteady before, were suddenly at her hip, squeezing, one slipping lower down her thigh to trace along the edge of the slit in the stupid dress that Liz had thought Maka should wear.

She almost crashed against the wall in her attempt to simultaneously get him off of her and keep him from falling flat on his face. His eyes flew up to meet her, impossibly accusatory in his drunken state, and she glared right back.

"Even though you won't remember this in the morning," she hissed. "I'd like to tell you that the next time you want to find someone to kiss and grope, don't make it me, because I don't appreciate it."

He snickered, his shoulders shaking as he slumped against the refrigerator.

"You..you say that like I would want anyone else," he hiccuped. His eyes fluttered shut, so he didn't see it when her face slammed shut, her mouth tightening imperceptibly.

She wanted to punch him for saying things he obviously didn't mean—because he couldn't actually want her—even if he didn't know how those words could hurt her.

"Goodnight, Soul," she said thickly. She whirled around and lurched to her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. The darkness of her room welcomed her, and she stumbled to her bed, dropping face first onto it.

She could hear him outside, singing again. Somehow, even through the stuttering, drunkenness of his tone, he sounded almost...sad.

"She got the honeeey...I don't think it's..it's funny...that she keeps walking...away."

She hated alcohol.

And she hated Soul's singing voice.

Mostly, she hated that she could still taste him on her mouth, and she knew it must not have meant anything to him.

But when he woke up the next morning, she still greeted him with aspirin and a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

People always said that you never got it right on the first try.

They had always told her that her first love, or first crush, would never be the one for her. Everyone always made a mistake the first time around, they said. It was how you knew you were right the second, or the third, or the fourth, or the fiftieth time. When you finally found what you were truly searching for, you could be certain because you would know it was different than anything you'd ever felt before.

That was one of the things that worried her.

The sound of his voice trickled across the muscles of her shoulders, drawing the tension out before she had even turned the corner. A steady thud of rubber against pavement met her ears and she looked up from her shoes to see him standing alone in the middle of the sunlit court, the basketball volleying back and forth between his hands and the ground. She paused, drawing to a halt with the grocery bag dangling from her hand, simply watching him. He was talking to himself, but she couldn't quite hear what he was saying, only making out the low timbre of his voice.

People always said that you couldn't fall in love when you were young, that you didn't know what it meant, that you weren't old enough, or mature enough, to understand.

That was why she didn't know what to think of times like this.

Because sometimes when she watched the movement of his body, the stretch and pull of his lanky frame, even when he was doing nothing more than playing basketball or stirring spaghetti, she found herself slowing down, focusing all of her attention on tracing his form with her gaze, as if she could make her eyes become her hands. Sometimes when he looked at her, she felt something clench deep in her chest, something flare behind her eyes, like a sun igniting inside her. Sometimes when she was with him, even just relaxing, doing nothing at all, she felt such a happiness rise in her that it almost blocked her throat, almost choked her.

And she couldn't tell herself that it was just a crush, a first infatuation to prepare her for whatever future true love she would find. Because when tears beat at her fists as she stood in a hospital room next to his bed, and when she heard him hiss in pain even as he assured her that " _I'm FINE, Maka, just focus on the fight",_ and when she watched his fingers dance over the keys of a piano, she couldn't ever imagine not feeling this, not loving him. There was something completely inconceivable about a future without him, a future where she did not fight with him and come home with him everyday.

This was something she _knew_. This was bone-deep. This was a certainty that filled her up and terrified her more than anything in the world.

Somehow, the world must've been wrong. Because she'd gotten it right on the first try. For her, there would be no more.


	4. Chapter 4

_Virginity? **  
**_

It wasn't something she had thought about a lot—or ever, really. Honestly, she was off killing kishins and battling witches most of the time. Sex wasn't really a priority in her brain.

But if she thought about, she supposed that she'd want it to be him.

Not for the usual reasons. Not because she was in love with him (because she wasn't). Not because she was particularly attracted to him (because apart from the whole "he's male" thing, there wasn't anything specific about him that was desire-inducing for her). Not because she thought he wanted her (because he'd never…never shown even a hint of interest in her like that).

No, it was because if there had to be someone to see her that vulnerable, that defenseless, she couldn't imagine it being anyone other than him. If she had to have someone touch her; smooth their hands over her bare skin and lay their body on top of her—if she had to stand naked in front of someone; feel their eyes tracing across her and scorching her limbs—if she was ever to let someone sink into her and cause that pain and take that innocence away—

_"I'm sorry, Maka. It gets better, I swear it gets better. Are you okay?"_

_"Yeah…just give me a minute."_

_—_ it couldn't be anyone other than him.

It all came down to trust. And there was no one she trusted more in the world than Soul.

She didn't want him or love him, not yet, not quite. But she trusted him. And maybe that was the best place to start from.


	5. Chapter 5

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I'm not repeating it."

"Yes, yes you are, because you can't...can't just—"

"Oh, the Great Albarn, stuttering over something. Never thought I'd see the—OW!"

"Serves you right."

"Jesus, Maka, I would've thought that the one good thing about this darkness is that you wouldn't be able to hit me!"

"Are you complaining? Because, if I remember correctly, the one who forgot to pay the electrical bill is you, which would be why we're sitting in the dark like this...and...and you still haven't answered my question."

"What question? You just asked me to repeat something, which I am NOT going to do. No, I'd rather argue over who forgot to pay the damn bill, because I'm just a stingy little tiny tits who doesn't appreciate anything my partner does for me ev—"

"How does the electrical bill have anything to do with me when it was your turn?"

"Maybe because I used that money for something more important, which is what I was trying to tell you—fuck this, just take it."

"Take wh—"

"..."

"Soul...is this a ring?"

"Maybe."

"..."

"Well, it's...it's not really a big deal. You don't need to say anything yet, I mean, I don't expect you to answer like now or anything, 'cause I get that this is out of the blue, and sort of the wrong time and—"

"..."

"...Geez, Maka, if you shut me up like that more often, I'd—"

"Say it again."

"What?"

"I can't answer until you say it again."

"I..."

"..."

"Marry me."

"Yes."


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes she feels like she's falling, and sometimes she feels like she's stuck.

They're growing older and, like with everything between them, they're doing it at the same time. One minute they are both short, him a little more than her, and their biggest concern is missions and turning him into a Death Scythe. But then she blinks, and suddenly he seems to have been stretched overnight, walking around in a body that doesn't seem quite so childish anymore, and out of the blue she finds that she has new problems. Problems like her own body changing, and with it, her thoughts, her emotions, her view on the world, and on _him_. They're growing older, and for some reason it's flipping everything upside down.

Denial. Acceptance. Despair. Rinse and repeat.

She could set her clock by it.

So after years of stagnancy _(of her waiting and him not noticing)_ , she says yes when Eric asks her out. He's another meister, and his hands shake when he stutters out the question in an abandoned hallway of Shibusen. She knows that she should find his nervousness endearing in some way, but all she feels as her eyes snag on his thumbs is a strange, hollow sort of disappointment. But her assent is out of her throat before she can even fully process things, and his smile makes it almost worth it.

Later, in the middle of dinner, Soul scoffs at the news, mocking her for getting only a "weak guy", before he saunters into his room and slams the door behind him, yelling out at her to leave him alone for a while because he has stuff to do. She barely hears him, because her head is full of white noise and she's gripping her fork so hard that the metal is cutting into her skin.

Eric is nice.

He takes her out and fusses over every detail, trying to make things perfect. She tells herself that she's attracted to him, and sometimes it's true; sometimes when he tentatively slips his hand into hers, she gets a tingle, a sharp little jolt travelling up her arm, and she thinks that there is nothing better than being wanted. But then she comes homes to an empty apartment and she feels the emptiness of it swell up inside her, and she thinks that nothing, no matter how sweet, can fill up the black hole in her chest.

So after a few weeks, she knows she can't do this anymore. And when she tells Eric that, she sees that maybe, under the sadness in his eyes, there is a little bit of relief as well.

_(Because she remembers him talking about his partner, his hands gesticulating wildly, a wider grin on his face than she's ever seen before, and she thinks that maybe he is not so different from her.)_

"Why'd you break up with him?"

Soul seems to melt out of the blackness of their apartment, and the sight of him is almost a shock. He's been suspiciously absent lately, and she flicks her eyes away from him, suddenly too tired to pretend, too tired to meet his eyes and say she isn't feeling what she is.

Denial. Acceptance. Despair. Well, she's reached despair again, and this time, there will be no rinsing and repeating. No more denial.

"I broke up with him for the same reason I went out with him," she answered, moving past him on feet made of lead. "Because you still didn't notice me."

She only makes it two more steps down the hallway before his hand wraps around her wrist and pulls her to face him. And then his body is pressing hers into the wall, his hands shaking in a very different way then Eric's had _(she knows desperation when she sees it, because it's all she thinks she's felt for years)_ , and he's lowering his face to hers. He moves so fast that he actually misses her mouth, his lips bumping over the side of her jaw, but the contact alone is enough to wrench a gasp from her lungs, and he shifts, capturing her next breath. Her eyes close and her body responds before her mind has caught up, and it feels like everything is finally being flipped right side up.

He kisses nothing like she thought he would. Because if she had imagined it feeling like this, she would never have been able to say yes to anyone other than him. So she kisses him back like she is making up for lost time, and she tries to pretend that the wetness on her cheeks is perspiration.

"I've always noticed you," he whispers, the words breaking from his throat as he pulls away slightly. "I just never did anything because I thought you didn't want me to. And then Eric..."

"We're both stupid," she laughs, and his hazy eyes agree with her. His lips touch hers again, slower this time. It's funny, because she thought that nothing could escape a black hole, not even light, but somehow the one in her chest is shining, is shrinking, is filling up with a burning kind of joy that wipes out anything she'd ever felt before.

Maybe she is falling, but it's definitely a lot better than being stuck.


	7. Chapter 7

The rain that night was beautiful.

It whistled through the heavy swirls of fog, striking the ground like footsteps, the sound muted and soft. It was the kind of rain that made everything seem more silent, even as it created a soundtrack in the background, a symphony underneath the events unfolding on the wide stretch of the riverbank. That night the rain fell from the sky like it was dripping from the folds of a gigantic cloth, like it was collecting on the fingertips of people in the clouds and rolling almost lovingly through the air and down to the earth.

And that night it streamed down around a boy and a girl, one bleeding, and one crying, and one pleading, and one dying.

She was still alive, but just barely, her olive eyes glazed over with pain. Blood painted her lips an almost wanton shade, and she tried for a smile.

"Not...your fault..."

He was hunched over her body, his hands gripping at her clothes uselessly, and he was clenching his teeth so hard that his own lips were white. He was shaking, from more than the cold, and rain was falling from his eyes to her own cheeks, salty and bitter and despairing.

He shook his head from side to side, as if a simple action could change the future. His clammy fingers slid up to her cheek, cupping her face, and he whispered denial.

"No, no, Maka, please, Maka, oh God please, please no—"

His voice snapped in two, and the pieces jostled together in his throat.

"Maka...you can't...you can't...I—"

And maybe it was the steady stream of blood pumping out of the hole in her chest with every beat of her suicidal heart, and maybe it was the look of her consciousness fading from her eyes, but he suddenly leaned down, his eyes squeezing shut against the sight before him, and pressed his mouth to hers.

So human. As if a kiss, as if a "but I love you, you can't leave me" could actually stop something.

But for one tiny second, one split moment while the rain slowed around them, she kissed back, the movement only the barest of caresses against the broken boy's lips. He pulled away and a flicker of something—something more than regret and something more than realization—flashed in her eyes and jumped the scant distance to him. She exhaled once across his mouth, a shuddering sigh that carried more words than anything ever spoken between them. Her last breath.

And he was left there.

He was left there confessing things to a girl who couldn't hear them anymore. He was left sobbing her name over and over like it was the safe word in some sort of game that she had forgotten they were playing.

_This isn't fun anymore, I want to stop. Let it stop._

Yes, the rain that night was beautiful.


	8. Chapter 8

"How was it?"

Maka looked up from the strawberry milkshake she had been stirring for the last five minutes, pieces of the aforementioned fruit sticking to the corners of her mouth. Tsubaki arranged her face into what was hopefully an incredibly patient and peaceful expression, instead of the blatant impatience and anticipation that she was feeling.

After all, it was Maka who had called her to their favourite cafe for an emergency talk, and yet she had so far done nothing but sit there and say a grand total _of_ nothing.

"How was what?" Maka muttered, her cheeks flushing.

Tsubaki's smile twitched. That morning alone, she had had to deal with Black Star apparently deciding to clean the fridge as a favour to her, only to end up devouring all of the expired food in some sort of "expiry-dates-mean-nothing-to-GOD" thing, which resulted in him barfing over seemingly every surface in the house. She was running a little low on patience.

"You called," she reminded her friend slowly. "And rambled something about Soul and kissing and needing to meet me here. So...how was it?"

Maka's face seemed to be edging away from red and towards purple. She nibbled on her lip for a minute before suddenly jamming her spoon into the milkshake with a ridiculously loud clatter and leaning towards Tsubaki across the table.

"He shoved his TONGUE in my MOUTH," she blurted.

Of course, she managed to divulge this information just as the general conversation of the other patrons in the cafe had a lull. Her words hit the quiet room like a bomb.

Except everyone was still alive afterwards and perfectly capable of staring at Maka like she had three eyes.

Which they proceeded to do.

Tsubaki could almost feel the sweat forming on her face.

She turned back to Maka, who was blushing furiously and attempting to hide her face with a menu.

"You might want to say it a little quieter," she whispered.

Maka dropped the menu and drummed her fingers on it, ignoring the other patrons, who were slowly returning to their own conversations.

"Is that normal?" she asked. "I mean, I don't know, I was just talking about our training schedule and how we should mix it up so we have more free time and then suddenly he just grabs my face and BAM!" She slammed her hands on the table for effect, her eyes widening. "There's a tongue in my mouth!"

"Isn't this a good thing?" Tsubaki questioned. "I thought you had liked him for months. Isn't this really good news?"

The other girl flushed even darker.

"It's just...it was weird..." she muttered. "At first...I mean, you don't expect someone to just do that right away! I thought he would go slow, but no, it was like he thought that an eel squirming in my mouth would apparently feel great for my very first kiss!"

Tsubaki winced slightly. That description had brought a very vivid picture to her brain, one that she'd never wanted to have.

"But it all turned out okay, right?" she prompted. "No one gets swollen lips like that unless they've had a very long and fulfilling makeout session."

A tiny smile twisted up the corner of Maka's mouth.

"Well..." she said slowly. "He got...better."

"Yeah, I guessed that," Tsubaki said. "Judging by the hickey on your neck."

"What? He left a hickey?"

"I was kidding...but your reaction tells me a lot."

"Sh..Shut up!"


	9. Chapter 9

"Maka? You in there?"

"No!"

"Riiiigght."

"...Just go away, okay?"

"Maybe I don't feel like it."

"Well, start feeling like it!"

"Maka—"

"Not listening!"

"..."

"..."

"You know, the proper response when someone proposes is not to throw the ring across the bar and lock yourself in the bathroom."

"..."

"That ring belonged to my grandmother."

"..."

"I mean, a simple no would've suffice—"

**BAM.**

"YOU PROPOSED TO ME IN THE MIDDLE OF A BAR."

"Well, I—"

"AFTER BLACK STAR BARFED ON ME."

"Hey, I told him he shouldn't drink anything that Patti offered him—"

"WHILE KID WAS DANCING ON THE TABLE. DRESSED IN LIZ'S CLOTHES."

"I always thought he had a streak of—"

"SOUL EATER EVANS, IF YOU DON'T—"

"DON'T WHAT, HUH? What am I supposed to do, just stop loving you because you have a problem with me being spontaneous and deciding not to wait for a proper time because, NEWS FLASH, there never is a proper time when we're always out killing kishins and—WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?"

"You love me?"

"...What?"

"...You said you loved me."

"Maka, I just asked you to _marry me._ How can it not be obvious that I love you?"

"You've just never...said it before."

"Really? Well, I guess it's a good thing you heard it now, because I'm probably not going to be repeating it any time soon."

"...Wait, Soul, where are you going?"

"For a walk."

"...YES, YOU DUMASS!"

"...Yes to what?"

"Yes, I'll marry you! God, the idea that you would doubt my answer is kind of insulting."

"...Maybe this was the wrong time for this."

"...Excuse me?"

"Because I really, really want to kiss you right now...but you've got Black Star's barf all over you."

"...Oh, yeah...I could...uh..."

"Fuck it."

"Sou—MMPH!"


	10. Chapter 10

" _What do you see in me?"_

A sliver of light fell across the bedsheet, a stark blue-white in the blackness. She watched from narrowed eyes through the fringe of her lashes as the light slowly slid across the body of the boy next to her. The white band touched his arm, slung casually over her waist, then smoothed over the curve of his bare shoulder, before the edge of it just barely moved up the line of his jaw, light slicing across his sleeping face.

She studied that face, only inches from hers. Her eyes roved over his skin, bleached marble by the moonlight, over the swell of his lips, over the spikes of his black eyelashes against his cheek. She knew that if he were to open those eyes, they would flash crimson at her, a deadly, bloody shade. She knew that if he parted those lips, lips she had tasted, then behind them would be a set of serrated teeth, ready to curve into a dangerous smile.

His body was radiating heat against hers, but still she felt cold. Even with his hands lazily holding her in his slumber, pulling her to him, she felt seperated, as if she was watching this from afar. For a moment she wished fiercely that he would somehow sense that she was awake and that he would wake up too so that she wasn't quite so alone. But the peace didn't leave his face, and he slept on.

Sometimes she was certain that if she closed her eyes, he would disappear. She would wake up, the only person in the bed, without even his physical presence to chip away at the lonely space in her chest. Because if there was one thing that the people in her life were good at doing, it was leaving her. And what reason could she even give for them to stay?

_"_ _What do you see in me?"_

It was that question that spun through her head at times like this, that question that wormed it's way into the bed and shoved in between them, spreading out it's limbs and latching onto her. Because he was beautiful, beautiful in a way that sometimes shocked her, whereas she was wallpaper, fading away in the sun. It simply couldn't be possible that he wanted her. Could it?

He shifted in his sleep, his arms automatically tightening around her body. His nose brushed against her cheek and he exhaled slowly, and in his breath, she almost thought she heard a name.

"Maka..."

Her eyelids fluttered, and she felt his lips against her skin, and she wondered if maybe she was afraid to be happy.

She closed her eyes, and he didn't disappear.


	11. Chapter 11

She ran like a woman possessed.

Legs whirlwinding clumsily, knees striking together sporadically, her arms slicing through the air inelegantly, her lungs screaming for her to stop, her brain screaming for her to keep going, keep running, running, running.

This was not the calculated dash of someone going on the attack, or the concentrated sprint of someone running in a competition.

This was the run of someone who had lost control.

Her hand slapped against the brick wall as she flung herself around the corner, pressing herself into the darkness. She gazed out of the alley at the empty square, patches of cobblestone illuminated by the street lamps, piecing through the night. Her pursuer had yet to catch up with her, and for a moment she sank back against the wall, relief and terror spilling through her.

His words were lodged in her chest, and she brought her hands up to press flat against her collarbone, hesitating there like they didn't know whether they wanted to protect the words or rip them out of her body. Her eyelids drifted shut and she saw him on the inside of them. He couldn't really have said that, could he? Because words like his were loaded, were filled with far too much importance, and—didn't he know that they could ruin everything between them?

But something was scratching it's way out from underneath the panic. Something was shining light out through the cracks in her fear, and her hands flew from her chest to clap over her mouth. She didn't even know whether it was a scream of horror or happiness that she was suppressing, but it was swelling inside her, blocking her air.

He...he...about _her?_

It wasn't possible. It shouldn't be possible. It was amazing. It was horrible. She wanted it more than anything in the whole world, and that thought itself glued her feet to the ground. This—whatever this was—was not something she could control. She couldn't stop her fingers from itching to skim across his skin, she couldn't stop her heart from jumping when he stood near to her, and she couldn't stop the feeling that had rushed through her entire body when he had said those words.

She needed him, and if this didn't work, then she wouldn't have him at all anymore. Not even as a friend, not even as a partner, because she was certain that she would never be able to resonate with him again if he stopped feeling what he said he did. So she shouldn't reply, shouldn't say yes, because it could kill them.

Footsteps clattered outside the alley and she froze, peeking out the small opening just in time to see him run past. He slowed to a halt in the middle of the square, turning on the spot in obvious frustration. His face was red, his body tight with tension, and he stopped completely, sinking into a crouch in a pool of light under a street lamp. He unclenched his hands and dropped his face into them, his fingers digging into his hair in a way that looked almost painful.

It was far from the cool facade that he showed the world most of the time, and she stared.

He was chasing after her, because she had ran away from him in the middle of the most difficult thing he'd ever tried to say.

And the scale in her heart tipped over.

It tipped, and the fear side sank to the ground, to the pit of her stomach as the other feeling, the other side of the scale, expanded, and the realization burst into her mind like a solar flare. If they felt the same, then what the hell was she doing hiding in this alley while he was hunched over in the street? Why were they separated, alone?

What was she waiting for?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Soul's perspective of the previous chapter. These two are the only chapters in this collection that are directly connected to each other.

Really, he should've known better.

Really, this was his fault.

Really, he shouldn't have expected this to go any differently than it had.

But, Jesus...

She could've at least not looked at him like _that._

He had heard the sound pouring out of his mouth almost distantly, like his ears and his brain had both disconnected from his body. He had felt his heart climb up his throat and flatten itself into words, and he had been powerless to pull it back and lock it away safely back into his chest. He'd seen those words reach across the scant distance between them and touch her cheek and he'd seen her-

He'd seen her flinch backwards from him.

He'd seen her face transform, twist into something he'd almost never seen on her, an expression that froze his feet to the ground, even as the words hanging between them fell to the street, splattering there like blood.

She had been afraid.

Of him.

And then she'd been spinning, been wrenching away from him and running, sprinting down the road like she thought he was going to knife her or something.

He had remained there in that spot a moment longer, almost as if he could somehow reverse what had just happened if he refused to accept that it _had._ But then the panic in his head streamed down through his limbs and he found his legs moving, running after her.

He didn't know what he'd do if he caught her, only knew that he had to catch her. Had to...explain? Deny what he'd said? Fix it somehow?

He skidded down into the square, his feet slowing. It was colder than it should've been for October, and his breath struggled past his lips, scraping out of his lungs. His head felt hot, and everything looked hazy. He spun around, his eyes scanning the streets and buildings both surrounding the open space and stretching away from it, searching for even the tiniest glimpse of pigtails and a slight frame. But the emptiness beat in upon him and he could almost feel it inside his hollow chest. For a second he tried to calm himself enough to search for her wavelength, but that proved impossible; adrenaline and tension and fear was strung through him so thickly that his legs were shaking. Before they could give out, he sank down into a crouch, the light of the street lamp above him only serving to make his shadow even darker than it usually was. There was a telltale burning starting in the back of his eyes, and he put his face in his hands. This was so far from cool, it wasn't even funny, but all he could focus on was the look on her face as she backed away from him. Pain flashed through his chest and he could feel his fingers scraping at his skull, pressing hard.

He couldn't do this. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't have revealed the secret he had kept for years in one stupid minute just because he had looked over at her, gabbling away, and the time had somehow seemed suddenly right for it—

"Soul!"

He was on his feet faster than he had ever though possible.

She was standing on the other side of the square, her hand braced lightly against the corner of an alley he remembered running past. He searched her face for some sort of sign of what she might be thinking, but she merely stared at him, lips slightly parted, expression unreadable. A sudden kick of wind pushed through the streets and suddenly he saw the words, words that he thought had been broken, soar up again between them, soft and tenuous, like spider silk. He felt distantly like he should be saying something, anything, to restore the normalcy of their partnership. The longer he remained silent, the more serious this was, the more this meant.

She didn't move, and neither did he. He wasn't certain if he was even breathing anymore. Right now, he knew something with a cold certainty: this girl held the power to break him like a wishbone. Her next words, whatever they would be, were the words that would define everything that was _them_.

But, looking into her eyes across the space between them, he also knew another thing: he was not afraid of her.

And maybe she saw, or maybe it didn't matter, but either way she opened her mouth, and spoke.

"I love you too."


	13. Chapter 13

Synonym: two words that meant the same thing, or close enough to the same thing.

Like "jump" and "leap".

"Beautiful" and "gorgeous".

"George Bush" and "stupid".

"Sex" and "Maka Albarn".

That last one had never used to be a synonym for him, but recently (if by recently you mean for years) he had found that everytime he looked at her, his new definition was pulsing through his head, through his entire body. In fact, he was fairly certain that he would never be able to have sex ever, without associating it with her.

(A theory that was proven when he accidentally called his last girlfriend "Maka" while he was in the middle of unhooking her bra. He was promptly dumped, and since then he had given up on trying to find someone to distract him, since he obviously had a one track brain)

(Not that he was bitter or anything. Just really damn frustrated.)

Sometimes he got so close to revealing the sin that crawled through his body whenever he was near her. She could be sitting there, nibbling on a cracker and peering quizzically at her book, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, and his personal synonym for her name would pound through his head like a mantra as he stared at her from the other side of the table.

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

He was certain that someday she'd glance up and ask him something and he'd just blurt it out. The word would be out of his mouth before he could stop it and she'd gape at him in shock and disgust, and that would be it. Partnership over, restraining order in place.

If this were happening to someone else, he'd think it was hilarious.

But it was happening to him, and it was fucking his life up, because if there was one thing he never could do, it was be with her like that. Because in her mind, he was certain, he was synonym only with the word "partner". Or "best friend", if he was lucky.

Maybe he could change that view. Maybe he could get her to see him in a different way. Maybe he could infect her brain the way she had his, and then he wouldn't be the only one dreaming about him stripping her naked and bending her over the table.

But until that miracle came about, it was going to be him and his hand for a long, long time.

Good thing Maka bought lots of lotion.


	14. Chapter 14

Sometimes she dreamt, and sometimes she didn't.

There didn't seem to be a rule to it. It was just that some mornings she would pry her eyes open at the beckon of sunlight creeping across her face, and in the back of her mind she would feel some distant images and words fading into black. She could close her eyes and hold them there for a moment, remember the timeline, the story, the people who had appeared. And then by midday, they would be gone completely, and no matter how hard she tried, she could only get the hint of an emotion, whether it was a bad dream or a good one.

After a while, she started writing them down in a dream journal. In a twist that would later prove to be ironic, the journal itself was one that Soul had given to her, at their very first Christmas spent together as a partner unit. He had awkwardly handed it over, mumbling something about noticing that she liked to read a lot, so maybe she'd like to write. She'd thanked him and then forgotten the journal existed. But now—now it was home to the strangest things her mind could produce.

Soul found it one day.

She found out that he found it because he started reading it aloud over supper. A well-placed Maka-chop got the journal back in her hands, but it took him a couple of days to stop laughing about it.

"Better be careful," he said, smirking at her. "I'll be able to know every dream you have about me."

She had rolled her eyes and told him to eat his scrambled eggs (it wasn't exactly a gourmet supper that night), because what kind of dreams would she have that involved him?

He had, of course, proved her wrong, in usual Soul fashion.

Of course he would show up in her dreams: he was her partner, and someone she saw on a regular basis, so his presence would be one that would pop up. He didn't take quite the same rational view as her, and seemed to take it as a victory every time he perused her dream journal (when was he going to get the message that her bedroom was NOT a library?) and he found a mention of himself. It didn't seem to matter if that mention involved him dressed in women's clothing, or as a puppy, or as a clown, or anything really. It became part of their routine that whenever she had had a dream that contained him, he felt the need to report it to their friends, right down to every gory and embarrassing and strange detail. And when he had finished speaking and the other were rolling in laughter and Maka was shaking in fury, he'd turn to her. It was the look in his eyes that stopped her from yelling at him every time. He looked at her with triumph, but mostly with happiness, like he actually liked the idea that he was in her thoughts, on her mind, invading her subconscious. That look stopped her fury and filled her right back up with guilt.

Because she knew he wouldn't look at her like that if he knew that what was put in the dream journal wasn't the full truth.

Of course he would show up in her dreams: he was her partner.

But there was no "of course" about the nights when she woke up, struggling for air, sweat gluing the sheets to her body. The nights when she woke up and felt the dream Soul's fingers leave her skin, tight and aching. The nights when she closed her eyes briefly and remembered not a Soul in women's clothes, or as a puppy, or as a clown, but as a _man,_ leaning over her, his naked body taut with anticipation, his blood eyes staring directly into hers.

There were some dreams she never wrote down. But unlike the others, they didn't fade with the onset of morning. Unlike the others, they didn't fade at all, and everytime she so much as looked at him, she could feel them there, underneath her skin.

Beating like a heart.


	15. Chapter 15

His voice.

That was what truly disarmed her.

While it was true that she was desperately, intensely aware of his hand at her waist, almost able to feel the individual whorls of the fingerprints he was leaving on her dress, that wasn't it. While she felt the heat radiating between them, making her question every thermodynamic scientific theory she had ever heard, she knew that it wasn't it either. Not even the flashes of his tan skin, contrasting with the sharp slices of bone white hair and crimson eyes splashed in the fringed vision of her half-closed eyelids was what pulled her in.

The music is a third dance partner, teaching them the steps, and she is following his lead mindlessly. His fingers tighten around hers and she is so attuned to him that she can sense every tiny shift of his body closer to hers. They spin, slowly, and it strikes her then, like a softened mallet upon the surface of a drum, that in that moment she is captivated, hovering alone with him, barely aware of the oni, or the room around them, or even the fight going on outside their subconscious'. It's like being on the edge of sleep, being able to feel the loss of control, and accepting it.

But it's not until he leans closer, and the curve of his dry lips brush against the shell of her ear that she can actually feel it. It isn't until he breaths a word out against her skin, in that low, satin sandpaper tone of his that she lets go.

That was what did it every time for her, and that's what worked this time:

His voice was a plea to surrender, and every time, even though she was the one wielding him, she fell into it at his call.

Resonance.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this may be the longest chapter. It ran away from me a bit!

She always waited for him to call first.

She'd prepare herself half an hour before the time they'd agreed on; cleaning away the clutter in her mind so that it was blank and she could focus only on him, on imagining that he was there with her. She'd sit there and stare at the phone, willing it to ring. The clock was within her line of sight, but she wished it wasn't. Because invariably, her tension would spike up 10% with each minute that passed after the clock struck 8:00, when he was supposed to call. Somedays he was early, and that could be almost worse. She'd come through the door one day from the store and was just about to drop the grocery bags on the floor when she realized that the phone was ringing. Sometimes she swore that her nervous system, her entire body, was tuned to the ring of a phone, because she had run to answer it like it was a life or death situation. His teasing voice had come out over the line, fuzzy, distant, but right there _(sometimes she closed her eyes during these conversations and he'd be right there next to her, his lips at her ear instead of the phone's receiver, the warmth of his body wrapping around her instead of the blanket she'd stolen from his bed)_ and he'd laughed that low laugh _(she'd heard some girls describe it as "ovary-slaying" and she'd been so filled with disgust at the idea that she'd almost punched the stupid fangirl in the face)_ at her breathless voice, asking what she'd been doing before she'd answered the phone. They'd argued, and she wondered if he could hear the smile in her voice even through the thousands of miles separating them.

But she refused to call first. She needed him to do it, to prove that he still wanted to talk to her. Because she was certain that one day he'd realize that she was only holding him back, and he'd just stop. The phone would remain silent, and she'd feel his absence carving away at her insides, and he would just leave her behind. It would be so easy for him, now a Death Scythe, on missions across the world, on a post that was supposed to last two years.

He'd been gone for a year, and sometimes she still wandered the rooms of their apartment, looking for him without even knowing it. She'd woken up one morning, a few weeks after he first left, and she'd suddenly realized that the shirt she wore to bed, his shirt, now smelled like her instead of him. And she'd been filled with an abrupt, consuming terror: that everything in the apartment would lose his scent and that slowly all traces of him would disappear until it was like he had never been there, and she had been living alone all her life. She'd run through the house and made sure there was something of his in every room, claiming the space as his. She slept in his room, and didn't wash the sheets, and didn't even care about the hygiene of that. She used his shampoo and bought more of it when it ran out. It was stupid, and she knew it, but when she let her hair down and sat in his room with the phone at her ear, surrounded by his voice and his scent, it was the closest that she could get.

One night, he didn't call.

She watched the phone all night, until her eyes were swimming in her head and time had ceased to march on by regularly and instead had turned into a flat line of static, droning in her ear. She didn't even realize it was morning until her alarm clock went off. When she went to move from the chair, her body protested the action loudly, and she almost sank back down. But a fierce pride suddenly filled her, and furious tears streaked her eyes: she was Maka Albarn, goddamnit, and she would get up and go to Shibusen and do her job. Just because he didn't call one night didn't mean her life stopped.

He didn't call the next night either.

She only realized that she hadn't been eating on the third night, mostly because the sounds of her stomach were so loud that they would've drowned out the ring of the phone, if it would ring, that is. There was nothing in the fridge but a loaf of bread that Blair had dropped off _(Blair had moved out and only came back to visit every so often, to make sure she was alive),_ so she ate that; just that. She sat by the phone and nibbled on the loaf of bread until she fell asleep.

On the fourth day with no call, she began to wonder if maybe her secret premonition and fear, that he would realize that she wasn't even worth anything anymore to him, was coming true. And that day she was glad that no one was home, that she was all alone, because the loneliness bubbled out of her mouth and flowed through her limbs in a livid, desperate fury, and she didn't even know what she was doing until she had smashed some of his things and her face was damp and slick with something that she refused to acknowledge as tears.

And she stood there and looked at herself, at how she had been since he was gone.

She didn't like what she saw.

This wasn't her, this half-formed, dependant, struggling girl. She had sworn that she would never become this attached to a man, so attached that she couldn't survive without him. Somehow, without her realizing, she had lost herself in him, in his absence, and she was drowning. If he saw her, he wouldn't even recognize her.

This had to stop.

She showered, and used her own shampoo and conditioner. She shaved her legs and dressed in her own clothes. She entered her own room and breathed in the air, and the stale scent of vanilla perfume and deodorant was so _her_ that she didn't even care when her smile cracked her dry lips and blood trickled down her chin. She bought groceries. She cleaned his room and put his stuff carefully back where they had been, and she washed his sheets.

It hurt, but it wasn't the knife in her ribs that had been there the past few days. It was a dull pain, and it was necessary. She was turning herself back, fixing the relationship that she had twisted, without him even being there to participate _(of course she would be crazy enough to fall in love with someone she used to see every day only when he were gone)_. And when she marched up to Shinigami-sama the next day and asked to be given a temporary weapon partner until Soul returned so that she could go on missions and not just be confined to teaching, it felt so good that she had to duck into an empty classroom to control the sudden surge of emotion. For the first time that week, she won that battle, and her cheeks stayed dry, and the next day, she was out on a mission with Marie as her weapon.

She came home, flushed with victory, and the sight of his old jacket hanging on the coat hanger made her smile instead of cry. It was then that the phone caught her eye.

Why was it that she had needed him to call first?

Why couldn't she just make the first move?

She crossed the room, slowly, her bag trailing from her hand to sink to the floor. Her hand traced over the edge of the phone, and she was about to pick it up when it suddenly rang.

She froze, staring, but then her limbs became a blur as she scrambled to pick it up, pressing it to her ear and stuttering out a:

"Hello?"

"Hey, Maka."

It was a punch in the stomach, and she staggered backwards.

"Hi, Soul. Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Sorry about that. I just realized something, and I had to..."

There was a knock at the door, and she swiveled to glare at the wood, before she decided to ignore it.

"Had to what?" she demanded.

"I...this would be easier to say face to face."

"Well, unfortunately, that's not a possibility right now."

"It would be a possibility if you let me in."

She narrowed her eyes in confusion.

"What?"

There was another knock at the door, and slowly she turned to look at it again. Her hand drifted up and clapped over her mouth, because it couldn't be, and if she asked him, than she'd just feel worse when she realized it was just the mailman or something...

"Open the door, Maka."

The phone fell from her hand and hit the floor with a clunk, the spiral cord winding around it on the ground, but she didn't even notice. It was only two steps to the door, but her fingers couldn't seem to keep up with her brain, and it took her what seemed like years to unlock the door and wrench it open.

There was a man standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets, a flush to match his eyes gracing his cheeks. He peered down at her through an overgrown fringe of silver-white hair, and he jerked slightly when she opened the door, staring at her hungrily. There was a split second of silence and motionlessness, and their gazes collided, tangling in a way they never had before.

"I lost my key," he said sheepishly.

She launched herself at him.

* * *

"Soul?"

"Yeah?"

Oh, those girls had no idea. Ovary-slaying didn't cover it, though maybe the appeal of his voice was just naturally heightened when he was lying naked next to her.

"I don't need you."

He arched an eyebrow at her, but before he could speak, she cut him off.

"But I want you."

He shook his head, nuzzling into her neck so that his hair tickled across the line of her jaw.

"Aren't they the same thing?"

She laughed, and the sound was weightless, free.

"No."

_(When she needed him, she wasn't Maka. She was insecure, she was desperate, she wasn't herself. And when she wasn't herself, how could she love him?)_

_(Wanting him though...there was nothing more "Maka" than that.)_


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an odd one. It's a monologue from Maka's perspective.

Phobia.

An extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something.

I know what it means, Soul. See? Not as clueless as you said I was.

I knew a boy once with a phobia of spiders. Paul. He was another meister, a twitchy kind of person. You know what I thought of when he first told me about his fear?

"Spiders? Really? Can't you be more original?"

That was the first thing that popped into my mind. Harsh, yeah, I know. But arachnophobia seemed so cliche, so typical.

A week later, one of the boys thought it would be funny to slip a tarantula into Paul's backpack as a joke.

Paul had to be hospitalized.

The next day, he dropped out of Shibusen completely.

And maybe I am the bitch that you called me, but when I heard about it, pity wasn't my first reaction.

I thought he was weak.

Pathetic.

And I swore—I _swore—_ that I would never be like that.

But you had to go and do this.

...

You told me you would never leave, as long as I wanted you here. Did you ever mean that? I thought I could trust—trust, ha! What a stupid word. I must be the most gullible person in the world to believe that you— _you—_ could be different.

You, who make fun of my body and get nosebleeds over Blair and lie to me and say that you love—

So, screw you, Soul. I don't even need you! You think I can't create another Death Scythe? Because I can! You were never special to me. You were just a tool, nothing more. And you are just like my father, leaving me because you're selfish, and I never...I never...

I'm shaking.

No, no, no, I am not this weak! I am not that person! I just...

You said you wouldn't leave! And I believed you! And you are so stupid, so stupid because couldn't you tell that I was lying when I said I didn't feel anything for you because I knew, I KNEW, that you couldn't actually mean what you said, except maybe you did and this is somehow my fault too...but I am Maka Albarn, scythe technician! And I am NOT this weak!

...

So, could you just come back? Because you were wrong. I don't have a phobia of loving people, but I might have a phobia of people leaving.

Soul?

Could you come back?

Please?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably one of my fav chapters!

It was taunting him.

That stupid, ridiculously pink, sprinkle-covered, heart-shaped doughnut was taunting him. He was certain. The curve of it was practically a smirk, and he could almost see the smug sweetness oozing off of it and prodding him in the side, even through the glass of the display case between them.

"Shut up," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at it. "It's not like you have a date for Valentine's Day either."

"Sir?"

He looked back up to see the cashier squinting at him suspiciously, probably trying to decide if a man who talks to confectioneries was more or less likely to be a psycho who would try to hold up a Tim Hortons at gunpoint. He would've smiled to reassure her, but he was fairly positive that shark teeth weren't exactly going to make any headway in proving his innocence.

"I'll just have a coffee," he said, drumming his fingers against the counter.

The cashier raised her eyebrow. He rolled his eyes, all attempts at concealing his irritation fading away.

"Just a coffee," he snapped. "A regular, ordinary coffee. None of this venti and latte and expresso shit."

She blinked.

"It's called an espresso."

"Whatever!" he snarled. He was in too bad of a mood to think about stupid stuff like this. "Get me the cheapest coffee type thing you have. And one of those heart doughnuts while you're at it."

She nodded and rang up his order as fast as possible, shoving a bag and what he assumed was a small coffee into his hands. He paid, and turned away from her to let the next person up, peering into the bag.

The doughnut smiled up at him in triumph, pink as a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

He groaned to himself. Great. He had somehow been suckered into buying the one thing that reminded him of what day it was, and how much he sucked.

A cool guy, he thought miserably as he slouched his way towards the exit, would've just asked her. Not moped around like a girl and been all stupid about it. No, he should've just said something. If it didn't work out, he could brush it off as a joke, right? He definitely should have just—

"Soul!"

He looked up to see the object of his frustrations shove her way through the crowded line up, her eyes bright with fury.

"You said you'd only be five minutes!" she said. "What is taking you so long! We have to get to Shibusen before class starts!"

Of course, Maka didn't know the meaning of subtlety, and was being loud as hell, her hands planted on her hips and her head tilted in that way that he _hated_ because it was so damn cu...Anyway, people in the line were staring at them, and some of those eyes were interested, male ones, focused on the way her skirt was flirting with her thighs, and he just did not feel like putting up with this shit right now.

"If you hadn't noticed," he shot back. "I'm in the process of going outside right this second, and there was a huge line up, and...do you own a dress?"

He blamed the doughnut. Holding a bag with something heart-shaped in it was obviously sapping away his intelligence, because he had actually just said that.

She was just opening her mouth to respond when the last part registered and her lips clamped shut. It took her a moment to recover, staring at him like he had three heads. Oh yeah, that was doing wonderful things to his ego.

"Why do you want to know if I own a dress?" she asked in confusion.

"Because we're going out tonight, and you're going to need a dress, because I'm not taking you to a cheap restaurant." Oh fuck, if she said yes, he was going to have to find a restaurant for them. He had connections though...Kid would be able to get them in somewhere, right?

Her eyebrows drew together and man, she was making him feel really confident with that expression.

"What?"

"Here's how it goes," he said patiently, as if he was explaining this to a mental patient. "It's Valentine's Day, and we are going out on a date, and you're going to wear a dress, so you better own one."

She gaped at him, and he had a sinking feeling that he was being loud as well, because the whole coffee shop seemed to be watching them now.

"But...you..." she stuttered, her cheeks flushing impossibly dark. "You can't just say something like that out of the blue! We're not...we..."

"Well, I did," he said with a fake calm he was certain every single person in the room could see through, even that baby in the booster chair thing who was gaping gormlessly at them and ignoring his mother's attempts to feed him. "Oh, and take this doughnut."

He wrenched the accursed pink thing out of the bag and thrust it in her direction. She took it from him wordlessly, distracted for a moment long enough for her to take a bite and him to try to regain some semblance of his facade.

Her huge green eyes regarded him over the edge of the doughnut, and the shop was way too damn silent.

"Yes or no?" he bit out, too tense to wait any longer for his inevitable rejection.

She slowly lowered the doughnut from her mouth. She had to be doing this on purpose, because he couldn't not know that she was tortur—

"Do you have a suit?"

He arched an eyebrow, trying to conceal the fact that her words had just restarted the flow of blood through his body.

"Yeah, I do. Is that a yes?"

She was looking up at him through her eyelashes, and he distantly wondered if there was something wrong with his hearing, or if there had always been that buzzing in his ears.

"You still haven't asked me properly," she said.

"Okay, then. Maka Albarn, will you go out with me tonight?" he said. "And...and you have to know that this isn't a friendship thing or whatever, this is—"

"Just kiss her already!" yelled some asshole in the lineup.

Flushing with anger, he whirled around to try and glare at whoever had said that.

"Shut up, idiot, can't you see you're ruining the—"

And then Maka was gripping the lapels of his jacket in one hand and pulling him to her, pressing her lips against his.

And the whole damn Tim Hortons was exploding into cheers and he was sure that this feeling must be what winning the Super Bowl was like, except those football players didn't have the girl they'd been in love with for years slicking her tongue along their bottom lip, and they weren't finally getting to find out what she tasted like, and _fuck_ , this was ten times better than the Super Bowl, what a dumb ass comparison...

He tipped her head back further and grinned against her mouth and decided that heart-shaped doughnuts covered in pink sprinkles were the best damn thing in the world.


	19. Chapter 19

"Listen, if you're jealous, just go over there and talk to her. Stop sitting there and looking like Kid just threw a fit about how asymmetrical you are."

Soul spat his beer out.

"Jealous?" he blurted, gaping. He wasn't certain what was weirder, what his friend had said, or the fact that Black Star was acting seriously for the first time in his life.

Black Star blinked, looking relatively calm, even with beer dripping down the front of his shirt.

"Thanks, man," he said dryly. "I always wanted to shower in alcohol."

Tsubaki must've been tutoring him or something, because Soul had never heard Black Star string together such a coherent sentence in his life. Or maybe this wasn't really happening at all. The world did look kind of fuzzy. He wasn't entirely certain how many drinks he'd had, but if it was enough to make Black Star sound intelligent, then it had to have been a lot.

"No, no," he said stumblingly. "What you said before. Jealous. What. What do you mean?"

Black Star snorted, throwing a leg up on the table and lifting his own drink to his mouth.

"Are you kidding me?" he said. "You can't fool the man who will surpass God! You've been pouting to yourself and practically chugging your beer ever since that guy started chatting her up. You are so jealous, it's not even funny."

For some reason, even though the bar was sort of wobbling a little bit in his vision, he could see her with perfect clarity, sitting at that corner table with Liz and Patti, smiling and laughing up at the dark-haired boy who had stopped to talk to her, to hit on her. He could see the flash of her olive eyes and the swish of her hair, let down for once, tumbling over bare shoulders, and the hint of teeth in that grin she gave only to people who she thought were worth it.

"I'm not fucking jealous!" Soul exclaimed, gesturing wildly with the beer to prove it. "Why would I be jealous, it's just her...her with her face and her mouth and that stupid, stupid dress thing she obsessed about wearing for hours at home and...and she hits me with books...and why would I be jealous of her talking to that stupid asshole...she should...she could...she can talk to whoever she wants, she's not mine, who says I want her to be mine-"

"Who the hell are you talking about?" Black Star cut in, staring at him like he'd sprouted horns. "I meant Mina."

Soul observed him through half-lidded eyes. He was so tired that maybe he'd hallucinated what Black Star had said, because it sounded to him like his friend had pronounced her name weirdly, sort of like...

"Mina?" he said slowly.

"Yeah," Black Star said bluntly. "Your ex, remember? She's like, right over there."

He pointed, and Soul shifted his gaze to see a blonde girl leaning against the bar, talking to a guy.

"...Oh," he said thickly. "Her. Right."

"Who else did you think I was..." Black Star trailed off, his eyes falling on the three girls at the corner table, and the man who'd been invited to sit down with them. "Jesus."

Soul's eyes closed, and he felt his chin hit the tabletop. Black Star's voice came to him as if through a fog, faintly concerned and amused at the same time.

"Fuck, man, do you ever think about anything but Maka?"

And distantly, just before unconsciousness overtook him, he heard himself reply.

"No."


	20. Chapter 20

She's so damn beautiful.

He's probably biased on the subject of her—especially since right now she's got her head pillowed on his chest, her hair splayed like silk over his bare skin—but seriously, in this moment, with the shadows falling over the dips and hollows of her face, and the corners of her eyes still wrinkled in that earnest way of hers—determined even in sleep—he thinks that it must be impossible for anyone to not find her beautiful.

But he is the only one who gets to see her like this, and he's glad. This night Maka, like some wild thing tamed just for these fleeting moments, is all his. She's a secret, a transient being. He wants to dip his head and press his lips to the curve of her eyelids, just to see if he can taste the glow. He wants to stop the drowsiness of his brain so that he can stay in this moment forever.

He knows that if he lets himself, drifting to sleep with her here with him will be the greatest feeling ever, a warmth and safety that he once didn't know he needed. But tonight, he wants to keep these eyes open as long as possible, and hold her in them.

The darkened silence of his bedroom hums with her and he watches her sleep, so in love with her that he can barely breathe.


	21. Chapter 21

Maybe it's because their lives are usually so complicated most of the time.

"Maka?"

"Yeah?"

Maybe that's why something that should be monumental comes out so easily.

"Will you marry me?"


	22. Chapter 22

It's just because of the way he's sitting.

It's not because it's him, not at all. It could be anyone, any man, and she would still be having this problem. It's hormones. Out of her control.

It's just because of the lighting.

There's one lamp on in the corner, above him, and the light is falling across his body like the soft touches of a lover. And with him sprawled out like that, with his hands just so...can anyone really blame her for where her thoughts are wandering?

He's lying on the couch, one leg bent and pressed against the back of it, the other stretched out, his foot dangling off the end. His head is lolling on the arm rest, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused as he gazes out at nothing in particular, staring into space in a way that makes it look as though he's surveying his own body. His lips are slightly parted, a glistening trace of wetness at the corner. One hand trails on the floor, but the other is resting lightly on his stomach, his pinkie finger playing idly with the button of his pants.

It's that hand that really does it. Because frankly, it's almost between his legs, and the way it's lying there, fingers slightly curled against his shirt, it looks...well, it looks like those fingers could be holding something.

And of course, her brain obliges, and suddenly it's like his clothes are melting away, and he's lying across from her, completely naked, and that hand is no longer just resting there, but is moving, stroking lightly, jerking off, his eyes heavy and his mouth dropping open a degree more, tan skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat—

"Maka?"

His voice, low and drowsy, drags across her body like a match, heat flaring up in the pit of her stomach. He is regarding her carefully, a lazy sort of curiosity on his face, and she feels the knot of her insides pull tighter. She can't meet his eyes, not after she had pictured him like that, doing that, and so she drops them to her book, staring blankly at the page, her heartbeat thundering in her ears like hooves.

"Leave me alone, Soul," she says, her voice carefully bored. "I'm trying to read."

He gives a grunt, and lets it go, his eyes sliding shut and his head tipping back. She glances up once, just once, and allows her gaze to skip across his fully clothed body.

He's moved his hand now, and she tells herself that the disappointment in her veins is just hormones.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for terrible poetry, but I said I'd post every single chapter.

there was this feeling she got sometimes  
with  
 _him_

it was hard to describe  
to find  
the word,  
the terminology,  
to classify  
this

this emotion, this sensation  
at the tip of her fingertips  
bright, bubbling, bursting  
pulsing out from underneath  
her skin  
 **lu-**  
 **mi-**  
 **nes-**  
 **cent**

it wasn't reverence  
no  
no, that was too distant, too separate for them  
that word implied that she was holding him higher than herself  
like an idol  
like something she strives to  
reach

it wasn't peace  
no  
no, her blood quickened too thickly at his touch  
slowed and pounded like a bass  
for that word to encompass it  
all that it was  
is

and yet it wasn't passion  
no  
no, could not be  
for she does not need to be wanting his body  
to feel it when she looks at him  
hot and soft and seething and soothing  
sharp  
gentle  
 _him_

sometimes  
she thinks it's beyond words  
sometimes  
she thought it was just one  
sometimes  
she wonders if he knows  
sometimes  
she knew it didn't really matter

it was  
is  
just a feeling  
that she loves


	24. Chapter 24

"I promise."

She remembers the exact cadence of those words tumbling out of her father's mouth. She remembers those times when sound would cease to exist, and she'd still recognize those two words, because she'd memorized the traitorous twist of his mouth when he spoke them. He's said them so often that it is impossible for her not to know them, to feel the strike of them in her bones when they drop from his lips. She's seen these words from all angles, from when she was so small he'd lit her up in his arms, cradling her there as he spoke, to when she was tall enough that she only had to look up a little. For a while, the sickening clawing in her chest seemed to get worse everytime he said it, but after a certain point (maybe after her mother mentioned the word "divorce") she just started feeling numb.

"I promise."

When her papa says it, those words are hideous. They are cracked and splintered, and framed by a smile that is so earnest it almost hurts her own face, and yet so false that the forgiveness, forgiveness for the lie he is speaking, never makes it past the stuttering walls of her heart before it is choked by the bitterness. When her papa says those words, they are the ugliest chunks of letters strung together that she can imagine, and underneath the dented shield she places up against him, she feels the urge to smash those lying words into the ground.

Promises mean nothing.

Never have, and never will.

And then Soul says it.

"Can you get some new milk on the way back from Black Star's? We're out."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. I'll get some, I promise."

Her throat closes up.

Because no-no, Soul can't become like her father, she's already gotten herself in too deep with him, she needs him and she can't have another person do this to her-

And when he comes back at the end of the day, there's a grocery bag swinging from his hand, and two minutes later he's toeing his shoes off, getting dirt on the kitchen floor, and putting the newly purchased milk inside the fridge.  
And suddenly she can breathe again.

And in the bottom of her stomach, there's the whisper of a

_maybe_

starting to grow there.

It's not that he's perfect. It's not that he tells the truth all of the time. He still lies about burning the curry and not using her shampoo. But when he says those two words-those throwaway, nothing, everything words-he makes sure it's true.

"I promise."

When Soul says it, those words are beautiful. They are whole and real, and the smile he gives them to her with is mirrored in his eyes, lazy and contemplative, so open that sometimes she swears she can plunge straight into them, see right down into the depths of him. When Soul says those words, they stack up inside her, like a tower of dominos, of toothpicks, fragile, tenuous, but sure as anything. And with each addition to the pile, they start getting stronger and stronger, pushing through what little shield she has against him. They resonate inside her like his soul does, and she doesn't even need words after a while.

"I promise."

Those words are there in the whisper of his fingers across her waist, in the brush of his soul against hers, in the way he stands next to her, his lean, his sharp-toothed grin. He's not trying to convince her of anything, not trying to placate her or reassure her. He's simply giving, giving of himself, and maybe, just maybe, that is what makes her think _maybe_...

And when he kisses her, it's a promise that he is exhaling across her lips, a promise that is curving his mouth into that smile, and for the first time in her life, it's a promise that she can believe in.


	25. Chapter 25

"Hey, Soul?"

"Yeah?"

"Why exactly is there a fish in the sink?"

Her white-haired partner poked his head out from behind his bedroom door, regarding her calmly.

"I'm making it for supper," he said.

Maka arched an eyebrow, looking skeptically between Soul and the kitchen sink, where the dead salmon was sprawled, tail sticking out to flop against the countertop.

"I don't like fish," she pointed out mildy.

Soul shrugged, meandering over to stand next to her.

"So?" he said. "We're having everyone over tonight, so you make some food for you and the other people who dislike fish, and I make this for the normal people, the ones who like fish."

He was smiling now, unexpectedly, and she had a feeling that she should've been more put about the way that smile disarmed her. Instead, her lips were curling up in response to his.

"Normal?" she responded, examining the fish more closely. "I honestly don't see how anyone who likes eating this stuff could be considered normal."

He laughed, and she marvelled at it. He laughed easier these days, for whatever reason, and smiled more too. She didn't understand it, because he was supposed to be "cool", to stay unaffected by most things, but recently, when she caught his eyes on her, she could say anything, do anything, and they'd suddenly be sharing a grin, lightning-burst fast.

"You have no idea what you're missing," he mused, shaking his head sadly.

"Slimy scales, that's what," she shot back.

"I dare you to touch it," he said, grinning wickedly.

"The fish? No way."

The aforementioned seafood was staring at her with it's sightless eye, and she did her best to stare it down, far more fazed by those unmoving eyeballs than by the hole under its head where it had obviously been cut open to have it's innards removed.

"You're just chicken."

"No, I'm just not stupid. I bet you haven't even cleaned it properly."

He narrowed his eyes at that, and she tilted her chin up defiantly, ignoring the hot thrill that passed through her body at the wicked look on his face. He carefully reached over into the sink and swiped a finger down the side of the fish, streaking across its scales. She knew what he was going to do before he had even lifted his finger, and she was backing away even before he started advancing on her, hand held out to touch her.

"Oh, heck no!" she exclaimed. Her cheeks hurt and the glint in his eyes hadn't faded. He kept coming forward, and she reached out, grabbing his wrist and trying to force his hand away. But he merely curled his hand, trying to smear the fish juices on her own hand, forcing her to try and dance away from him, still holding him at bay.

The light in the kitchen was golden.

They wrestled together, a strange sound filling the air, half laughing, half panting. He was pulling at her waist with his free hand, and she was backing into his body, feeling the contours of his shoulders and hip press into her. And then he was breaking free of her grip and his finger, slightly wet from where he'd touched the fish, was pressing against her hand. She made a noise that she would never admit was a squeal, and twisted away from him before rushing back into him for revenge. He was practically convulsing in laughter, his eyes squeezed shut, and he barely tried to fight her off as she rubbed her palm over his face and the top of his head. She was laughing too, her mind snagging on and automatically cataloguing the feel of the curve of his cheek and the texture of his hair underneath her fingers. They slapped at each other fairly pointlessly, and after a moment they were just standing there, looking at each other, with matching smiles so loud that they were practically broadcasting their simple happiness to outer space.

"Do you even know how to cook fish?" Maka asked, trying not to think about how easy it would be to sway forward into his touch again.

"Nope."

"Soul!"


	26. Chapter 26

What if she's only doing this because I want it?

That's one of the things that worms its way into his mind sometimes, sometimes when he's holding her like this, his fingers sinking into the dimples of skin between her ribs on her back, pressing them together like he can make her slot into him completely. When he slides his leg between hers and rocks up against her, does she throw her head back like that because she likes it, or because she just wants to make him happy?

He can't help it, thinking that he is the one who wants this more. Maybe it's because he's wanted this for years, and yet he never caught a single hint that she felt the same way, until a few months ago when he grabbed her after a fight and just kissed her because he couldn't stop himself, and she melted under his touch and kissed him back. So, yeah, he's a little insecure. That's why he always, always tries to make it better for her than him, lavishing attention on her body, not letting her turn the focus back on him. He needs this, and if he makes it good, she'll stay, and maybe she'll stay not just out of some sort of obligation, but because she gets some enjoyment out of it.

His mouth meets her, not quite a kiss, more like he's breathing into her, their open lips just brushing so he can taste every juddering gasp she makes. He can feel his heartbeat across his entire body, pulsing under his skin, his spine pressing uncomfortably into the wall, the slight pain of it making everything sharper. He's always careful, making sure his grip won't bruise her, making sure that he doesn't leave a mark on her skin, but she has no such compunctions, and he can't help but bite out a strangled version of her name when she ducks her head and sucks a hickey onto his shoulder, hard. In the darkness, he can still see the shape of her profile, the feather-light shadows of her eyelashes on her cheek. The look on her face when he slides his hands up her sides is so fucking depraved that he simultaneously wants to congratulate and slap himself for putting it there. He's pulling her shirt over her head and she's pulling out her pigtails, eyes dark on his, and he thinks he can't possibly want her, love her, more than this.

He reaches for her again, but she slaps his hands away, snarling something that might have been words, but don't reach through his hazy brain to be translated. He knows this look on her, so for a second he gives in, slumps back against the wall and lets her rip open his shirt, ignoring the way the buttons protest. Her tongue meets his skin, and he can't help the way his breathing goes ragged, because she seems to know every single one of his hot spots, and she's licking at them, kissing, biting. Her hair sticks to his sweat-slick skin and suddenly he becomes aware that the trail she's making down his chest is leading into dangerous territory fast. He clenches his teeth, trying to control the urge to thrust forward when she mouths against the front of his jeans, and his hands fly to the back of her head.

This is it, this is the part where he pulls her back up and lays her down on the bed and kisses her to her peak, because he can't let her do something like this just for him, just because she thinks (knows) he wants it. But she looks up at him, there on her knees before him, and she doesn't look like submissive, like she's looking for his approval. Her eyes are heavy and insistent when they meet his, and it suddenly hits him like a fist in his gut: she wants to do this. Not for him, but for _her._ She wants him.

And he's groaning, and tangling his fingers in her hair, and he's letting her unzip his jeans, fucking _letting_ her, and somehow her mouth makes his insecurities just fade away, like they were never there.


	27. Chapter 27

Smiling.

People smile a lot when they flirt, right?

Right.

She was fairly certain that they did.

Maka set down the drink that had been placed in front of her, straightening her back and scanning the club quickly for a potential test subject. A boy who was probably close to her age, maybe a little older, carelessly glanced over towards the table where Maka was sitting, Tsubaki and the Thompson sisters beside her, and Maka caught his eye instantly, flashing him an enormous smile. His eyes bugged out, his face twitching, before he looked away with a visible shudder.

Alright.

So smiling alone wasn't going to work.

"Maka?"

She gritted her teeth, glancing over at Tsubaki with narrowed eyes. The other girl flinched visibly.

"What?" Maka hissed, smiling unpleasantly. "Because if you say one word about this being—"

"The wrong way to get Soul's attention?" Liz cut in, leaning across the table. "Maka, it is, and you know it."

She felt a vein throb in her forehead and watched the others cringe at whatever expression was on her face; obviously it was something terrifying enough that it could even scare Patti, who had abandoned her paper napkin sculpture to stare at her friend in unabashed horror.

"This is the right way!" Maka insisted. "I need to learn how to flirt, because flirting is what you all do to get a guy's attention, and I will just practice on the men here!"

Tsubaki and Liz exchanged glances, and Maka could instantly see that there was something that they were keeping from her. After a silent conversation between the two of them, which consisted of some pretty intense nodding, sighing, and eyebrow acrobatics, Liz turned back to Maka, flattening her palms on the table and assuming an expression appropriate for a doctor delivering a cancer diagnosis.

"Under normal circumstances, that would be an acceptable way of going about things—if we ignore the fact that the only way you could have more of Soul's attention is if you stripped naked and put whipped cream on instead of underwear—but you have forgotten one thing," Liz said slowly. "This is the bar where Soul works part time."

Maka shrugged.

"Yeah, so?" she said. "It's easier to coordinate rides this way."

Tsubaki exhaled noisily, rubbing a palm over her forehead, with a twist to her mouth that could only be described as "pained". Liz patted her consolingly on the shoulder without taking her eyes off of Maka.

"I don't think you understand," she said, pulling out a sheet of paper, and handing it to the other girl. "This is his workplace, and as such, there are some things he can do that he couldn't in another bar. Like make sure this flyer is given out to every male who walks through the door."

The flyer had one picture and a block of text.

The picture was of Maka, smiling and tucking her hair behind her ear, one of those split-second "Look up, Maka!" pictures that somehow managed to come out perfectly. The text was in big, bold, black letters, and consisted of four lines.

"This girl is mine. Hit on her and I will fucking kill you. (By the way, I'm the guy with the shark teeth serving the drinks. Yes, the teeth are as sharp as they look.)"

"...Maka?"

"Give her some time, Tsubaki. Once she's done choking on her drink, I'm sure she'll figure out whether she wants to beat him within an inch of his life, or just jump his bones."

"How about both?"

"Patti, drink your Cherry Coke."


	28. Chapter 28

It's a strange thing and a perfect thing.

It's something that makes more sense than anything he's ever seen before; more sense than the rotation of the earth; more sense than the cycle of the seasons; more sense than the star they call a sun, burning away at the centre of their little universe.

It's a kiss in the morning and blackened toast waiting on a plate. It's fresh milk in the fridge and a grocery list lying on the counter. It's her clothes strewn around his room, and her toothbrush next to his in the bathroom.

It's her ice pale skin, blue veins shining up through the translucency, easy trails for his tongue to follow. It's her mouth mapping out the geography of his stomach, sucking along the top of his jeans. It's his fingers in her hair and hers scoring down his back.

It's fat ankles and stubborn-ness. It's slouches and sharp teeth. It's hands that lace together like two halves rejoining.

It's something without any real beginning, and something that's never going to end.

It's a definition of "forever".

It's belonging.

It's happiness.


	29. Chapter 29

In another life, she could've been a dancer.

She had the form for it, not just with her long legs and slim body, but with the subtle grace that was present in her every action. It was a deadlier grace than that of a dancer's, however. It was the smoothness of someone who was constantly ready to spring into action at any second. Her steps were measured, deliberate, her weight balanced just so. At the tiniest sound, she could drop to the floor, flip backwards, her hand curving around Soul's staff, holding him at the ready. But in another dimension, it would be the start of a song that would signal the beginning of her movement, not into a stance of defence, not into an attack, but into a languid stretch of limbs, her back curving into a twisting movement, like waves.

In this other world, they would still be partners, as ever. But their synchronicity wouldn't be in the heat of a battle, but would be in the sweep of his arm across her back, her footsteps mirroring his. As ever, they would dance the best when they were together, playing off of the beat in the other's chest, drawing energy from the gaze of the other's eyes. Sure, it would be a different universe, this one where they dance and don't fight, but they would still be Soul and Maka, and Soul and Maka never perform better than when they work together. As one.

Sometimes, when he played the piano—not the dark, twisted pieces that came from some yawning pit inside him, but the soft, gentle ones, the ones that always began with a "G"—he found himself picturing that: Maka and him dancing. With each slow note ringing out, he could see her take a step, arms held out, fingers tracing along the shoulders of the phantom image of him. He could picture it clearly, how they would move together to the music, and it was that thought that helped him place his fingers on the keys of the piano, helped him choose a melody.

Because when he got in the mood to play something, something...nice...he wanted it to be something that reflected the music trapped in Maka's body. Trapped in those limbs that could have belonged to a dancer. The music had to be good enough that he could see them dancing to it in his mind.

It had to be good enough for her.


	30. Chapter 30

Seriously? You think this is a good way to make us apologize to each other? Record me saying some stupid shit and play it back to her? I mean, you've had some pretty dumb ideas, Kid, but this takes the—

Ow, geez, Liz. Whatever, I'll do it.

Um.

So, Maka...

I just talk into this recorder thing? Right, just checking.

Okay.

...Are you guys going to stay in here? 'Cause if I'm doing this, I don't want you to be listening.

Uh, maybe I have things I want to say to Maka that aren't for your ears? Maybe I don't want you three in here while I'm talking? What? No, I'm not going to say lovey-dovey shit! Just...could you guys leave for a few minutes 'till I'm done? I mean, you're the ones forcing me to do this anyway.

'Kay. Thanks.

Right then.

Maka.

I...God, this is stupid.

...

I know you're pissed.

Understatement of the century.

I know you're pissed at _me._

But here's the thing: I didn't mean it like that. I mean, come on, you have to know that what I love about you the most is your strength. So I wasn't trying to...belittle that or whatever.

The reason I didn't want you going on that mission wasn't because I thought you weren't good enough or something.

I just didn't want you using someone else as your weapon.

Okay?

So that's it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you didn't get it and that you thought I was disrespecting you. It's not any of that at all.

...

I'm just...I just want all of you. I want to be just yours, only yours, and I feel like if you're using another weapon, then I'm not...special. Fuck, that sounds so girly.

I'm just jealous, okay? Jealous that you were going to have to resonate with someone else, wield someone else. And I get it, alright! That's a stupid thing to think, especially since you're my—girlfriend is the stupidest word ever, doesn't come close to—

I know what's between us isn't just weapon-meister stuff. And I know you're not just going to leave me for someone you go on one mission with.

But...you're mine. You're my meister, I'm your weapon, and I like it that way.

It was just jealousy. And I'm sorry. You can go on your mission. I won't try to stop you again. At least now you know where I'm coming from.

Um...yeah.

I love you.

And sorry.

...

How the fuck do I shut off this recording thing? If I leave it on any longer, I'm going to get more and more pathetic sounding.

Maybe I'll just unplug it from th—


	31. Chapter 31

It's always in the middle of a fight when it strikes her the hardest.

Among the swirl of arms and legs and movement—a menagerie of disjointed images shooting past her eyes and being processed almost too late for her to react—sometimes she gets this feeling; a shock like she's teetering just on the edge of control, like the next step she takes could be the wrong one. The confidence she wears as armor, the surety and skill that deflects blades and teeth from finding purchase in her flesh, sometimes cracks. Not a lot, but just enough.

Enough for her to eyes to track the glint of his scythe blade and to feel the heat of the metal shaft in her hands, his presence seeping through it and into her, plugging up the crack it came through. Enough for her to sense his soul mingling with hers and to have _him_ spread out and fill up her insides and remind her:

Oh.

_Partners._

And then the blade sings through the air and a head disconnects from the body of another monster, and the scythe in her hands is transforming, a boy stepping down lightly, the corners of his mouth tilting up to greet her.

Partners.

When he takes the Kishin Egg and swallows it down, she can almost feel that too, burning in her throat.


	32. Chapter 32

"74% of weapon-meister relationships result in a romantic connection at some point."

It took ten minutes of him staring at the words for him to get it.

He'd become a fucking statistic.

Soul slammed the book shut and reached up with jerky, shaking movements, slotting the book back into it's place on the bookcase. The library was shuddering around him, unreal, and he abruptly wanted to be anywhere but there. He felt like his feelings were oozing out of his pores with his sweat, blatantly obvious to everyone in the room. He ducked his head, jammed his hands into his pockets, and shouldered his way through a group of people standing at the entrance. The second his feet hit the linoleum of the hallway, he was running, bursting out a side door and into the fresh air. An unseasonally cool breeze swept at the tension in his body, trying to ease it, to slow him down. He ignored it and blew on through, letting his feet carry him far away.

Eventually he came back to earth, finding himself wandering listlessly along some back streets. He traced the cobblestones with his eyes, ignoring the few other people who passed. He slouched and walked and thought about a sentence in a book and a girl with pigtails.

He wished he'd never come across that stupid book, lying open on the floor at the foot of the bookcase. All he'd meant to do was shove it into the shelf, but no, he'd paused to read a little of it. Mistake.

It couldn't be true.

He pictured Maka, his partner (his everything), in his head: long, slim legs, gloved hands and sharp grin, ash blonde hair whipping against her cheeks when she turned her head to look at him, green eyes glowing. The pull in his chest was so familiar now that it didn't even hurt anymore, and he refused to believe that a book could tell him how to define that.

They were partners, and yeah, that was a big part of whatever was building between them, but that wasn't just it. It couldn't be. If Liz had been his partner, or Tsubaki, or something, he wouldn't have grown to feel this way about them, he knew it. It had to do with her, with Maka. It wasn't just some partner's thing. Even if she wasn't his partner, he'd still love her. He had to believe that.

It wasn't the meister he was in love with; it was the girl.

Wasn't it?

Or was it just that he was the same as any other weapon who had fallen for their meister? Was it just the resonance, the trust, the fighting—had it been inevitable that he would one day look at her and realize that he wanted to be by her side forever? Had it ever been up to him? Was he really just one of many, feeling the same things that hundreds of weapons had felt before him? Part of a formula, a phenomenon.

He couldn't. He couldn't think that way. Because if there was one thing in his life that he was certain about, it was loving her. Book or no book, statistics or not, he couldn't stop this, and he couldn't doubt it either.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking, letting his tangled thoughts slip away. At home, his meister was waiting, and he didn't want to be late.


End file.
